The Cursed Gift
by Muffy the Dough Slayer
Summary: "So don't look at this as a curse," Dorian says, reaching for his hand. His fingers easily press against the mark as he turns his palm up. The mark seems to hum in response to Dorian's magic even though the mage isn't currently casting a spell. "Look at this as a gift." Rated T to be safe. A Mess You'd Wear with Pride series. See profile for details. Pre-relationship. Pre-M/M.


**A/N:** Uh, okay, so this takes place in the "A Mess You'd Wear with Pride" series (see my profile for details) and takes place before _One of Those Days_. I neglected to ever post the story here for some reason; it was on my AO3 account though. Anyway, now I'm posting it here. Also, for those of you who don't know, Schuyler Trevelyan is the same Trevelyan from _The Justice in Surrender_ , but this is the timeline that got erased in that story, since it involves time travel and a new life for Schuyler, who becomes Callum. Anyway. So yeah, there's that. I just thought I'd go ahead and post this here, finally. It's not very good, just something I needed to get out of my head back then. This was written over a year ago, I think xD Sorry about that.

Begin!

* * *

 **The Cursed Gift**

Dorian Pavus is interesting, to say the least.

He's not what Schuyler expected in a Tevinter altus. Then again, he's not sure what he was expecting, but he knows it wasn't Dorian with his particular brand of sarcasm, flashiness, and that mustache. He definitely wasn't expecting the mustache. It doesn't seem to go with his smooth, velvety voice, skewed sense of humor, or the way he enjoys contradicting himself.

One minute he's all angry with his countrymen, then he's homesick.

As much as Dorian belittles the faults of his country, he says he is quite fond of Tevinter, for he misses it dearly. He simply doesn't agree with a few of the vital aspects of such a place, such as the blood magic. But there's little one man can do to stop anything, especially when faced with a country.

And then he feels silly, because isn't that what he's doing? One man fighting to save Thedas. Except it's different, he's sure, because he is but one man in a growing army, even if he is called the Herald of Andraste. Every day their numbers grow. His advisors – Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana – are constantly making new connections and allies and finding more jobs for him to do to strengthen their cause.

He is not alone.

It just feels like it sometimes.

"Hello to you again, Herald," Dorian says as Schuyler approaches him in his little cabin. "A guy could get a complex, you visiting him all the time. Tsk, tsk, tsk. What _would_ the nobles say?"

"Well, I'm a noble," Schuyler points out with a faint smile. "And I'm not saying anything."

"The scandal," Dorian replies with a grin. "To what do I owe this particular visit?"

Schuyler shrugs. "Do I have to have a reason?"

"Hmm. I suppose not. Tell me, what does the Herald of Andraste want with an evil Tevinter mage?"

"Do you see yourself as evil, then?"

"No one can see me like I see myself," Dorian replies with that smug grin of his. It truly is almost contagious. Schuyler fights off a grin of his own. This is why he likes talking to Dorian – no one seems to make him want to smile as much. "I am, after all, perfection personified."

"You're pretty high on yourself, aren't you?"

"You would be too if you looked this good."

Schuyler rolls his eyes but he's smiling.

"So you admit that I _do_ look amazing."

There's that smug tone again.

"I'd be lying if I didn't notice you look rather… appealing."

That is what they do, though – they flirt. It is harmless, and meaningless. And perfectly fun.

Dorian's eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly, like he wasn't expecting him to reply in such a way. "I'll keep that in mind for future reference, Herald."

"Schuyler," he says automatically. "My name is Schuyler."

It would be nice if someone used it.

Dorian smiles again. "Schuyler it is."

It's certainly a start.

Schuyler returns to his own cabin smiling.

It's not much, but it is definitely a start.

And he finds he rather likes the way Dorian says his name. Maybe it's just because it's been so long since someone _called_ him by his name. His parents rarely addressed him and he hasn't seen them in a long time. As the youngest sibling, after the last of his elder siblings left home, he was alone and he hasn't spoken to them in years. And now everyone here calls him the Herald of Andraste.

It's nice to have an actual name again, he finds.

For however long it lasts.

xXx

"So, you're a necromancer?"

Dorian looks up from the tiny table in his cabin. Schuyler offered to help find Dorian better quarters should he wish for it, but the mage declined, stating he was simply surprised he was offered a place at all. Schuyler finds himself visiting Dorian's cabin every evening he is in Haven.

They have known each other for roughly three weeks. Three weeks ago, they went into the future together. That jump-starts a friendship, Schuyler is certain. During that time, Dorian was the only person he could trust, and he was handy to have at his side, very adept with his magic. They would need to work on their rhythm, of course, and learn to work together properly if they were going to make it a 'thing', because more than once Schuyler went in for a quick kill and then had to quickly backtrack as his opponent was set ablaze, the heat causing sweat to quickly dampen his skin.

He assumed Dorian was simply a battlemage, like he witnessed in the Order. He'd been around mages during his time there, after all. He spent four years with the Order, a year training with them and then three years as a Templar. So he simply assumed Dorian was a battlemage, but after hearing Bull warn him about Dorian – _again_ – he's learned that Dorian is a necromancer.

"And you're a Templar," Dorian replies absently, flipping the page of his book. The book is ragged and old, but they don't have a large option here. Haven is small, and most of what they do here revolves around training the newly freed mages to fight against this 'Elder One' and the demons escaping through the rifts.

"I am," Schuyler says. "Well – depending on who you ask. But still, why didn't you tell me you're a necromancer?"

"You didn't ask."

Schuyler scowls. "How would I know to ask?"

"You could have simply asked what kind of mage I am."

"I assumed you would tell me you're into necromancy."

"Necromancy is an art, but I don't expect you to understand."

"Why? Because I'm a Templar?"

Dorian looks up, again, big brown eyes meeting his own blue-green ones, brows furrowed somewhat. "No – because you're not a mage. You don't understand the intricacies of magic, how it feels, how you strive to control it."

Schuyler pauses thoughtfully, and then nods. "I see."

"And please shut the door at your earliest convenience," Dorian says, scowling faintly. It's so rare to get him to actually scowl, so for a moment Schuyler fights the urge to laugh. "You southern-types might prefer this cold, but I rather dislike it."

"You hate the cold?"

"I dislike the thought of freezing, yes."

"You could always just start a fire – you're a mage, after all," Schuyler says, but even he must admit it's chilly, with new snow falling from the sky. He steps all the way into the cabin and closes the door behind him, brushing snow off the shoulders of his armor.

Dorian eyes him up and down. "You look half-frozen. Perhaps I should warm you with my fire? I promise to only burn you a little."

Schuyler chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Indeed. What brings you here at this hour?"

"It's our usual time," Schuyler says, lips twisting downward into a slow frown. Does Dorian not wish for company? He honestly should have asked if Dorian was okay with chatting nightly. He definitely should have at least knocked, but he hasn't knocked the past two times and Dorian hasn't said anything. Then again, it is common curtesy; he will remember to knock next time, if there is a next time.

If Dorian does not enjoy the interaction, their nightly talks can stop. Schuyler won't force him into a conversation he doesn't want.

Dorian watches him for a long moment, before his lips lift in a wide smile. "Indeed it is," he says, closing his book. "In that case, I'm all yours, Schuyler."

Schuyler smiles at the use of his name.

"Is there anything in particular you wish to discuss?"

"How'd you become a necromancer?"

Dorian shrugs. "How'd you become a Templar?"

Schuyler realizes he has spoken little about his family. To anyone. "Everyone in my family joins the Order or the Chantry. Once I was of age, I was forced to choose. I chose the Order. It seemed the better option, at the time."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not so sure. What about you?"

"Necromancy has always fascinated me," Dorian says. "I began my studies when I was ten. Mother and Father always wanted the 'best' for me, you see, so that meant early lessons. I showed a natural talent toward necromancy and its spiritual elements, and I decided to pursue it."

"A natural talent toward necromancy?"

"I'm sure it all sounds strange to you. It's hard to explain to an outsider. No offense," Dorian says quickly.

Schuyler waves it off. "None taken. I'll take your word for it, though. But it's interesting, you being a necromancer. I've never met one before."

"Well, now you have," Dorian says, grinning with that twisty mustache of his.

The grin is, as always, rather contagious and he finds himself smiling along with him.

xXx

Schuyler Trevelyan has never been on particularly good terms with his parents, not since he was very little. He never wanted to follow in his family's footsteps, joining the Chantry or the Order, and this often led to harsh words spoken in anger. The more he steered clear of his parents, the better off he was. In the end he gave in only because he was tired of arguing, and joined the Order.

From there he was sent to the Conclave. It was important to see what would happen there, and he was curious. His memories of the gathering are scattered, unclear. It is all one giant blur and try as he might to remember what happened, he simply cannot.

For a while he wondered what his parents thought of him now. If they thought he died at the Conclave like everyone else, if they worried like parents were supposed to, if his numerous siblings worried… but in the end all he received was word that they knew he was alive, and then a letter from his mother. Lady Annabelle Trevelyan was a warm blanket when he was little, always holding him, the youngest of the siblings. As he grew into his teenage years they argued. She wanted him to join the Order, stand up for what is right. Or at the very least, marry and give her grandchildren. His father didn't care where he went, the Chantry or the Order, as long as he made a name for himself, and their family.

These days it is like they are in two different worlds. In a few short weeks he's gone from being a prisoner, wanted for killing the Divine and everyone at the Conclave, to being the Herald of Andraste, praised and looked at as a guiding light in a sea of green and black.

One would think parents would appreciate this new title of his.

He wonders again how he ever got along with his family in the first place, to stay with them for eighteen years. When did he last even speak with them? Four years ago, when he left? That sounds about right. They argued then, too. And he left for the Order, giving into their wishes whilst simultaneously turning his back on them, and he never looked back.

And now here he is.

Except it's not really him. _He's_ not important; he's merely a symbol. What he potentially represents is what people like, not himself. He stands for hope in a dark hour, and that is what they need. That is what people want. Not him.

His parents aren't happy about his new title.

They called it a charade and told him to come home.

Like he's twelve, and is going to be grounded for staying out too late with a servant boy.

Angry with their response – _they didn't even ask if he was okay after the explosion, or express gratitude that he still lives while others perished_ – he throws himself into the Inquisition. An agent of the Inquisition… that really works for him. He fights for something he chose, even if it's strange. Even if he started off as a prisoner. He could have turned his back on this place any time he wanted, but instead he remains. He remains, and throws himself into battle with fervor, because that is all he is good for.

He is not the Herald of Andraste.

He is not a noble.

In the end he doesn't even think he's a Trevelyan.

"Look at you, daggers strewn over your bed," comes a familiar voice from the open doorway to his cabin.

He left the door open accidentally after he stormed inside after they returned to Haven, carefully stepping over the forgotten, crumpled letter on the floor. Thinking about his family ignites anger once again but thankfully Dorian enters the cabin, eying the bloody daggers on his small bed. His cabin isn't much, but he declined the larger cabins. He is fine here.

"Honestly, what _will_ the nobles say?"

Schuyler shrugs as he moves the daggers from the bed to the floor. The blood on them is dry, but they do need to be sharpened and cleaned before their next use. He scoots over and pats the spot next to him. Dorian sits next to him on the bed.

"I feel as though you've something on your mind."

"What gave it away?"

"Just the nasty scowls you've been sending everyone lately," Dorian says with a small shrug. "Nothing major, you know."

"I haven't been sending anyone nasty scowls."

"Oh, but you have – I think Cullen is worried about approaching you. Honestly it's amusing to see him so uncertain."

"I'm not _that_ bad," Schuyler mutters, shaking his head.

Dorian flashes him a grin. "To be honest, I don't mind. You haven't been sending _me_ nasty looks, for what it's worth. You must like me."

"Sure, something like that," he says, shrugging.

"Right, then. I just came by to lend you my ear if you wished to talk."

"Talk?"

"About whatever is bothering that head of yours," Dorian clarifies. "Your little dwarf friend, Varric, insisted I approach you. He seems to think we are friends. Which, I have been meaning to ask – where do we stand, you and I?"

"I don't understand your question," Schuyler says, frowning. "We're friends, right?"

"Are we?"

"Yes."

It is true they haven't known each other for very long, but they went through something traumatic together and that strengthens and hurries the bonds between friends. And truly, he does want to be friends with Dorian. In a way he already sees them as friends, if only for the fact Dorian will actually use his name, unlike everyone else.

"I see," Dorian says slowly, before he nods and smiles again, brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "Then my ear is yours, Herald of Andraste."

Schuyler scowls.

Dorian laughs. "See – that look right there, it's the look which has left Cullen so wary of approaching you."

"Please don't call me the Herald," Schuyler tells him. "It's bad enough when strangers call me it, but we're friends."

Dorian smirks. "I was merely messing with you. Don't believe in all that 'Herald' business, I take it?"

"Not really," Schuyler says. "Or, at least, if there is a Herald of Andraste out there anywhere, I know it's not me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I think."

He doesn't remember what happened, after all, so he can't know for sure, and neither can anyone else.

"So you believe the mark is a curse, then?"

"What else could it be?" Schuyler asks, looking down at his left hand. He's wearing gloves – thin, flexible, fingerless gloves – but still the mark glows from beneath the cloth. The brightness is dim at the moment, as there are no rifts nearby. The mark grows and throbs and shines when he is near a rift.

"Perhaps it is a gift."

"A gift," he repeats, frowning as he flexes his hand into a fist before letting the muscles relax again. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, you _are_ closing the rifts, and you stopped the Breach from spreading," Dorian tells him easily, as though it should be so very simple. "I'd say that's a good thing, wouldn't you?"

"I guess…" he says slowly.

"Where would we be without that little mark on your hand?"

"I don't know…"

"The Breach would still be growing and we'd have absolutely no way to close the rifts. There would be little hope of stopping this. But you – that mark on your hand gives us a chance, I believe. Many others believe this as well."

"Well, when you put it like _that_ ," he says, shaking his head with a heavy sigh.

"So don't look at this as a curse," Dorian says, reaching for his hand. His fingers easily press against the mark as he turns his palm up.

The mark seems to hum in response to Dorian's magic even though the mage isn't currently casting a spell.

"Look at this as a gift."


End file.
